Let Them Eat PieCaken

On embracing a new season, in more ways than one.

I have long said that October is my favorite month—a time of crunchy leaves, light jackets, golden dusks, and last but very not least, a mélange of gourds.

Every year on this day, I think of the Anne of Green Gables quote, “I’m so glad I live in a world where there are Octobers.” But in practice, October is always a bit of a wildcard. Historically, it’s been a time of breakups, bad news, and general upheaval. Even the gourds were poor consolation.

This year is no different, taking on a particularly layered quality that’s difficult to parse. Late last week, we picked up our marriage license. Later that same day, my beloved dog’s health began to decline. As I wrote a couple weeks ago, I’ve been occupying a liminal space, dancing around future plans, anticipating grief that I cannot preempt. There are other things afoot, as well, and other thoughts I’ll share when I am ready.

So, today I’m revisiting this essay, originally published in the early days of this newsletter. If you are new here (welcome!), I hope you enjoy it. And if you’ve been reading since the beginning (thank you!), perhaps it will resonate anew, as it did for me.

This week’s card—a very October pick if ever I’ve seen one—is brand new.

I once dated a man with two identities.

That sounds more compelling than it was. He wasn’t a spy, nor a grifter from a Netflix series. He wasn’t a pilot with homes in different cities, toggling back and forth between them. But in a way, he did lead two separate lives.

He was a performer who went by his stage name. Hardly anyone, save for family and a few close friends, knew his given one. Whenever we went out, it was like watching him slip into another being, his shiny public persona. Behind closed doors, he was a different person—a reserved creature the larger world never got to witness.

I used to think he was an anomaly. But the more I look around, the more I’ve noticed that almost everyone I know is living at least two existences—oftentimes more.

There’s the deeply introverted friend who dons an outgoing mask for her customer service job, then spends the weekend recovering in silence.

Or the friend who is a buttoned-up corporate professional by day and a celebrated drag queen by night.

Or the couple who met in the most dramatic way—I can’t say more, but use your imagination!—and vow to never tell their children the truth.

Even if your situation is not so night-and-day, you’ve likely experienced some version of this. One face with family. One face at work. Another for parenthood. Another with friends. Never the twain shall meet…except inside us, where they are expected to coexist.

We—quite literally—contain multitudes.

There is another, deeper version of this balancing act—when we exist inside two emotional states. When triumph and loss happen simultaneously. When we are handed equal doses of heartbreak and awe. When life is mostly positive, but the headlines are anything but.

The view from my window as I was writing this. Touché, sky.

In life, there are good seasons and bad. But much of the time, it’s not so easy to define.

The final episodes of Insecure handled this concept brilliantly. Every character’s storyline, but particularly Molly’s, had an emotional resonance TV shows rarely capture. The highs and the lows were palpable, yet unfolding simultaneously.

This last year has felt that way for me, as it has for many people I care about. In my circle, there was a miscarriage on the heels of an engagement, a wedding followed by a tragic loss, career success unfolding alongside illness. The hoped-for arrived with the never-saw-coming.

As compartmentalizing has never been my strong suit, I’ve been thinking a lot about how we go about housing these unlikely roommates. How do we occupy multiple head spaces, multiple seasons, simultaneously?

The English language lacks satisfying terminology for this—the closest I can get is “bittersweet,” but the experience is decidedly stronger. It’s not the same as “conflicted,” because you aren’t confused about what you feel. Nor is it “ambivalent,” because your feelings aren’t mixed. Each is as pure as can be—there just happen to be a few of them, and the blend is more lethal than a Long Island Iced Tea.

In the absence of a better term, I’ve taken to calling it lifey. As in, “Damn, I feel lifey today. I’m going to take a walk.” Traditionally, lifey means “full of life,” and that’s about as accurate as it gets. It’s the cousin of emotional overwhelm, but instead of coming at you with quantity, it opts for variety.

If feelings were food, it would be piecaken—a many-tiered monstrosity with various pies baked into alternating slabs of cake. Some layers are enjoyable, some layers are not-so-much, and when you put it together it’s really…just…a lot.

This plate has a lot going on right now.

The most helpful piece of advice I’ve heard recently is that it’s okay to feel multiple things at once—not only okay, but inevitable. Grief and gratitude are not mutually exclusive. There is much beyond our control, but we can do our best to let the hard parts inform our living. We can honor someone through our actions. We can use our feelings as a catalyst for change. We can appreciate the hell out of this day.

Earlier this week, I ran into a friend I hadn’t seen in a while. “How have you been?” she asked, as we embraced on a street corner that once housed a beloved dive bar but is now a TD Bank. “What have you been up to?”

“So much life,” I said, shaking my head. “So much life.”

It is human nature to qualify everything—good and bad, positive and negative, progress and stagnation. Surely there is value in specificity, and value in sharing. But in the end, it’s all life, not for us to understand as much as experience.

So. If you are pretending. If you are compartmentalizing. If you are putting on a brave face. If you are worried and hopeful, mourning and celebrating, confused and certain, determined and just about ready to give up.

Me too.

I don’t have the answers, but I do know this: Life happens in layers. And even the scariest piecaken must be eaten one bite at a time.

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Card of the Week

Here is this week’s card for the collective, as well as some thoughts to carry into the days ahead. As most modern readers will tell you, the tarot is not about fortunetelling, nor is it about neat, definitive answers. The cards are simply one path to reflection, a way of better knowing ourselves and others through universal themes. If this reading resonates with you, great! And if not, no worries. Take whatever may be helpful and leave the rest.

Featuring Soul Cards by Kristine Fredheim

This week’s card speaks to those moments that divide our world into “before” and “after.” You know the ones—the plot twists, the rug is pulled out from under us, and it’s up to us to rewrite the rest of the story.

On a very basic level, The Tower talks about change, but it’s about so much more than that. This week’s message is about cycles, specifically about the power to be found in starting over. It encourages us to adopt a shift—in our beliefs and our approach—to make way for something new.

The iconic Smith-Waite tarot, with art by Pamela Colman Smith

Traditionally, The Tower shows a structure that is on the brink of collapse—admittedly, not the most uplifting image. But as with all cards, a Tower cameo doesn’t always speak to what’s actually unfolding. Just as often, it’s about what’s going on inside us—the fears, anxieties, and patterns that love to keep us standing in our own way.

All appearances to the contrary, this week’s message isn’t concerned with what has toppled, but rather with what comes next.

This card would like to remind us that the moments when shit gets real are often the catalysts for positive change—the times that ask the questions, teach the lessons, and usher in motivation, inspiration, and purpose.

Every great protagonist has a Tower moment. It’s the inciting incident, the catalyst that launches the hero’s quest. It’s that scene when we first encounter them curled on the bathroom floor. In the next frame, they’ll book the ticket for their trip around the world, embark on the journey that will change their life, or take the step that will launch their new, expanded worldview.

But first, The Tower.

In the past, I’ve likened this card to makeover shows, and how one must say goodbye to the old to make way for the new. Whether it’s a home, a haircut, or a habit, we can all benefit from changing things up from time to time. And on a macro level, The Tower nods to the fact that disruption is a very necessary part of the process. Sometimes, you need to tear down old structures, especially those created by others, to replace them with systems that work for you.

Last year, I attended an event with Olympic medalist and NYC marathon winner Shalane Flanagan, where she said something that stuck with me: “A setback is a good excuse for a comeback.” I’m a sucker for sports platitudes, and this is no exception. If The Tower decided to write a self-help book, this might just be the title.

The Tower encourages us to scrap our plans and begin again, in ways both big and small. As Fred Astaire sang, “I pick myself up, dust myself off, and start all over again…”

Or how, in the words of Semisonic, “Every new beginning comes from some other beginning’s end.”

Change happens, whether we resist it or not. We may not always want the hand we’ve been dealt. And that is valid. It’s okay to acknowledge that. It’s a good idea to seek support. But when we feel ready, The Tower reminds us that renewal is waiting.

We have the power to shape what comes next. The slate is clean, the canvas blank, and the road wide open—where shall we go?